


by the dashboard lights

by navree



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Americana, F/M, Road Trips, Underage Drinking, it's talked about a lil, mentions of jughead's asexuality????, or at least a bit of it, which is MORE than riverdale ever did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navree/pseuds/navree
Summary: The headlights of other cars illuminate their faces at odd intervals; the radio plays a muted soundtrack to their journey; the car keeps on going.It's a long and winding road from the outskirts of the world to its center. They can't wait to travel it all.





	by the dashboard lights

**Author's Note:**

> I've mentioned this before, but I'm gonna take a bit of a break from shorter one shots as I focus on both a super long Hamlet thing and my own original content. As always, any requests (jeronica related or otherwise) can be sent to me at navree.tumblr.com. Additionally, this can sort of be seen as a sequel to **And The Mist Curls** , since there's a reference to that fic in this one.  
> as always, comments (either positive or constructive) are always welcome and much appreciated!

Jughead knows the world has no end. He knows that the world is a globe, that it turns and turns and there's no real sudden stop to it. But sometimes he can't help but feel that Riverdale is at the very edge of the world. He knows that it's not, not really; he knows that there are other places that might be worse. But it feels so isolated here, and sometimes it makes him want to scream. He wants to scream because he knows that there is an entire universe out there, filled with bright lights and big cities, a universe that suits him so much better than his one horse town. 

Maybe that's why he found Veronica Lodge so irresistibly insufferable when he'd first met her. Her personality had played a factor into it as well, as different from his at it was, but mostly, it was what she represented. She represented everything that Jughead wanted to experience but hadn't, all the worldly travel and sensational lifestyle that made her such a shiny new toy for Riverdale to play with when she came to town. He'd been curious about Veronica too, but before their solitary walk in the dark had never really had opportunities to hold an honest and genuine conversation with her. 

But now, after he walked her home? Now, there existed some form of mutual thawing. They weren't best friends, the way he was with Archie or the way she was with Betty, but they weren't acquaintances either. Friends-adjacent was the term he was using. Jughead found that he liked being friends-adjacent with her. And he liked that becoming friends-adjacent was the most normal part of his life, after a year filled with deaths **_(_** like Jason's **_)_** , sudden returns  ** _(_** like his dad's **_)_** , hookups **_(_** Archie and Veronica, Kevin and Joaquin, the list goes on **_)_** , breakups **_(_** him and Betty **_)_** , and drama **_(_** everything else in between **_)_**. 

"Summer smells different here." She does this, slides into his booth at Pop's and begins a conversation without so much as a hello. Jughead prefers this to small talk. 

"Does it?" He doesn't ask about the fact Veronica thinks summer smells, or that she feels that Riverdale's newest season is worth an entire talk, let alone a single mention. They may be friends-adjacent, but he's not suddenly going to give her a free pass if she says something that doesn't make sense. "Maybe Riverdale's just less polluted than the Big Apple." 

"Very funny." Her tone is slightly too subdued to be acidic, and Jughead forty-fives his computer in curiosity. "Summer in New York is...it's electric. Here it just feels muggy and lazy, like the only exciting thing that's gonna happen is a wet t-shirt contest." He could always remind her that Riverdale's last summer had involved deaths and intrigue that could rival a daytime soap opera, but he doesn't. Mostly because Veronica has a wistful lilt in her voice and a far off look in her eyes. Jughead finds it intriguing. 

"You miss it there." It's not a question, but Veronica nods as if he needs an answer. And ordinarily, that would be the end of it. He might offer her a sympathetic slash of a grin, or crack a joke at her expense that would make her smile, but that portion of their conversation would be over and done with. And Jughead would eat his burger and shake his head at the dainty, baby bird way she drinks her milkshakes, and they'd argue about literature and cinema well into the night. That's how they've been doing it ever since their late night rapprochement. So he can't explain why he does what he does next. But he closes his laptop, and waves away a waitress who is likely coming to ask if he wants his usual, and ask Veronica what her order is. Shoving everything in his bag, he says only two words: "Let's go." 

"Wait what?" Jughead doesn't wait to see if she follows him, only turning around when they're in the dimly lit diner parking lot. The neon lights of the sign reflects off Veronica's dark hair, as if it had been polished by the butler from _Great Gatsby_. "Are you being serious?"

"Deadly," he responds, his expression deadpan. "You miss New York, and I've always wanted to see it. So let's go. It's summer, there's nothing for us to do here, and both of our parents are currently out of town." He shrugs, hands widespread. "So let's go." Veronica looks back, a flicker of uncertainty on her face, before she turns back to face him. And she's smiling, wide and excited, like a kid on Christmas Day, and it makes something in Jughead's chest go warm and soft. 

"Sure. Let's hit the road." 

 

 

 

Jughead is surprised by how similar their taste in music is. He would have assumed that, even during a spontaneous road trip, they would at least bicker about something, most likely the music. But no, she's been listened to his classic rock, even head banging on occasion, and so when she transitions them to Broadway numbers, he lets her sing them, loudly and outrageously and surprisingly on key. She looks happy in an unbridled way, a childlike way, and Jughead finds that he's humming along with her. 

They keep like this for a while, not even attempting a conversation, just letting the music wash over them as Jughead drives along the flat stretch of highway. Eventually, Veronica turns the volume down, opens the window, and leans out, letting the night wind ruffle her hair. Then suddenly, she snatches his beanie off his head and tosses it into the backseat. He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and takes one hand off the wheel to smack her hand off his head, but does nothing else. He doesn't mind the fresh air on him. All Veronica does is laugh, the different lights of the dashboard illuminating her face in a faded, multicolored glow. 

"I'm glad we're doing this Jughead." He doesn't take his eyes off the road, keeps them firmly fixed on the world ahead of them. He won't say it, not right now, but he's glad they're doing this too, glad that they're taking this time off of everything happening around them to just...be teenagers. But he won't tell her. Not yet, not when this bizarre summer truce is still so foreign. 

They don't stop, not through the entire night, alternating who's at the wheel whenever one or the other gets tired. The headlights of other cars illuminate their faces at odd intervals; the radio plays a muted soundtrack to their journey; the car keeps on going.

 

 

 

"So, you've never really been outside of Riverdale?" They're waiting at a gas station for the tank to fill up, both leaning against the passenger door. Jughead has his flannel wrapped around his waist and his hands shoved in his pockets, his beanie still discarded in the backseat. Veronica had managed to grab some clothes from a minuscule outlet mall a few miles back, and is, for the first time Jughead's known her, in jeans and a simple t shirt, her legs crossed at the ankles. She's still wearing her pearls. 

"Not far out of Riverdale," he amends. "And certainly not out of state." He nods at the space around them, so completely banal and unprecedented. "I think this is the farthest I've ever been in the world." He waits for Veronica to laugh, to call him small town. But she doesn't. Instead, she rests an arm on the roof of the car, giving him a long, measured stare. 

"You'll like New York," she decides, and Jughead doesn't doubt it at all. "It's like...the center of the world. Like anything that can happen, that could possibly happen, will happen. That's why it keeps getting invaded by aliens and Godzilla and what not." He laughs, and she laughs along with him. They relax into an easy, comfortable silence, allowing Jughead to take in the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the way he can hear the rush of car tires against the road. It makes him feel peaceful. 

He can't remember the last time he felt peaceful, as if there didn't need to be a thousand different thoughts running through his brain at top speed. They're still there, of course, words and phrases and fragments of anything and everything, but they're softer, quieter. Like they realize that he's entered a different sort of existence, even if only for a short time, and allow themselves that same breathing room. Glancing at Veronica, he wonders if she feels peaceful too. She catches him looking, and the slightly perplexed look on her face makes Jughead want to flush. And it makes him wonder if he's just imagining the tint of red on her cheeks too. 

"I'm kind of starving." He doesn't point out that you can't put _kinda_ before a hyperbole. Instead, he simply pushes himself off the car, checks to see how much gas is left to fill, and jabs a thumb in the direction of the convenience store. 

"You want?" 

"Yes please. I'll take whatever you're getting, but preferably saltier. And covered in chocolate?" Jughead doesn't say anything, just walks and browses by the aisles until he finds chocolate covered pretzels. He hates them, never understands why people would combine sweet and salty when the two work just fine on their own, but he buys two large cans anyway, and a packet of microwavable popcorn for himself. When he heads back to the car, he finds Veronica facing away from him, resting her chin in her hands, elbows propped on the hood of the car, staring out at the road stretching from one edge of vision to the other. Without thinking, he announces his presence by placing a hand on her shoulder, a soft touch. 

"Ready to go?" She nods, and Jughead leaves his hand for a fraction of a second longer than he thought he would. 

 

 

 

It's only just starting to get dark when they stop at some roadhouse type place for dinner. It's Jughead who suggests it, parks the car in the dingy parking lot and convinces Veronica that they won't fall prey to some disease or another. He makes a crack about the Four Seasons, because he can, but his voice is softer, and she just gives him a smile rather than a snap back. They've been joking with each other still, keeping up the banter that caught each other's attention in the first place, but it's less sharp. Like everything is an inside joke, rather than a competition to one up the other in some bizarre game of who can be snarkier. Jughead doesn't entirely hate this new change. 

The roadhouse feels very Western, very rustic, but not necessarily unsanitary. Jughead orders a cheeseburger, of course, mere minutes after they sit, and Veronica opts for a plate of cheese fries. He orders them both beer. 

"You can't live on sangrias for the rest of your life," is his explanation when she opens her mouth, no doubt to tell him off for ordering for her. She looks shocked for a minute, a faux shock, and then breaks the illusion with a smile. Their drinks come, and while it's no Pop milkshake, Jughead does appreciate the lack of attempt to check an I.D. 

"So," Veronica begins, taking a sip. "How's the next great American novel coming?" 

"I wouldn't necessarily put it that far up on the shelf, not in a world where Truman Capote has existed," he begins, and he appreciates the way she smiles. He continues on, explains all the different plots and twists and turns, how he's interwoven them into one connecting arc, turned their hectic and hellish year into something worthwhile. He tries to skip over the messier bits, over the relationships gone sour and the loves gone wrong. Veronica drinks while she listens, but her eyes are intent and she's clearly taking it all in, just like she did the first time he told her about his magnum opus. She interjects her own opinions from time to time, and Jughead lets her, a rarity whenever he's talking about his writing. The conversation breaks when the food arrives, and when it recommences it's on an entirely different topic.

"You and Betty..." Jughead winces, taking a long gulp from his beer. It's weak alcohol content, but alcohol content all the same, and it makes him more recipient. Veronica looks sympathetic, but she presses on. "What happened, according to you?" 

"What generally happens." He doesn't want to be cruelly blasé, and hopes he doesn't sound like he is. "It was good while it lasted. It was great even. But we're in high school. It was a high school relationship. And sometimes those last until the end of time, and sometimes they just kind of peter out." He shrugs, elbows on the table. "Sometimes you've got to realize that you're more of a Paris in a girl's life, not a Romeo. So we decided to call it quits." 

"I'm sorry." He doesn't need the condolences, but it's nice to hear all the same. 

"You and Archie?" It's her turn to look vaguely uncomfortable, cheeks flaming red with a small, self conscious grin. "He said it was kinda like me and Betty."

"Something like that," Veronica concedes. "We just rushed things, I think. And things that are rushed don't generally turn out stellar." Jughead nods, and steals a fry off her plate. Either she's very preoccupied with her own thoughts, or she lets him. "Do you think...Archie and Betty, you think they'll..." She makes a series of vaguely suggestive hand gestures, and in spite of himself Jughead finds that he's laughing again. 

"I don't know. Almost everyone thinks they will." Kevin and Cheryl and even all their parents, from the time they were all old enough to understand what relationship were, had all hopped on board the Archie/Betty train. "What do you think?" 

"I'm a believer in the idea that if two people are meant to be, they'll find their way together in the end." He raises an eyebrow, and Veronica raises one back, a silent dare for him to call her a sap. He doesn't, but he also doesn't tell her how nice that idea sounds, the idea of the universe pushing two souls together, consequences to that. 

"Cheers to that," is what he says instead, raising his bottle in her direction. The glass clinks, and they return to easy topics and comfortable silences for the remainder of the meal. 

 

 

 

The rain scraps their plan to simply slog through the remainder of the night for the next hour it would take to get to Manhattan. Instead, Jughead finds them a motel that hopefully isn't run by a man with a severe Oedipus complex, and makes the executive decision that they will spend the night. He makes note of the possibilities of a pull out couch bed as they stumble into the room, Veronica breathless from a run made in an attempt to make sure she didn't get too soaked. So far, everything looked all right, although her hair is a bit damp. He refrains from making a comment on it.

"I can take the couch." Veronica gives him an almost exasperated look, as if he's just said something incredibly stupid.

"Well that's not fair to you, or your back. Especially since you've been doing most of the driving." Jughead shakes his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. The headlights of the passing cars along the road shine passing bright on them every few seconds, creating an odd, dreamlike quality to their exchange. 

"No complaints." He's firm in his decision. "Besides, you've been chauffeured around your whole life, I'm surprised you're even able to drive at all." 

"Hey!" He's laughing even before she is, before she smacks him in the chest and he puts on a pretend mask of hurt. There's quiet after, save for the sound of tires and the patter of rain on the roof. "So, tomorrow...you wanna see all the tourist attractions?" 

"Well, that," Jughead concedes. "And I want to see all the old Veronica haunts. Figure out the inner workings of your New York mind." She glances down at the floor, hands tucked in her back pockets. 

"You would have hated the old Veronica." It's soft, barely a whisper, and Jughead takes a step forward to hear her properly. "She was shallow and manipulative and mean...Cheryl Blossom times ten." He finds that hard to believe, knowing her the way he does, seeing her the way she is. "If you'd met me in New York, if you'd spent a minute with the old Veronica...there's no way you would ever like me." 

"Hey." He ducks his head down, and their eyes meet, dark on dark, hers unsure and his sympathetic. "I like you _now_." Jughead's voice is low too, and he wonders if Veronica's aware of the implications, that he's come to accept her, flaws and all, during their road trip, that he's come to like her in spite and because of them. She isn't smiling, but her gaze is grateful, and he feels a pit in his chest. 

Either he leans in or she does, Jughead's not entirely sure, but somehow they are kissing. That's the only part of them touching, at first, just their lips, and Jughead doesn't know about her but he feels afraid to touch her, afraid that suddenly the suspension of time and space that has allowed this will be broken and they'll have to return down to planet Earth. But then she takes a step forward, and he takes a step forward; his hands come up to frame her face, stroke along her cheekbones, her fingers curling in his hair, arms wrapped around his neck. She tastes sweet, but with a tang. Not sugar, but fresh fruit, strawberries on the cusp of being ripe, blackberries picked at the very end of August. They stay like that for a while, kissing, the rain drumming down on the roof and the headlights alternating the room between illumination and darkness. Eventually, they pull away. Veronica is smiling, and Jughead can feel that he is too.

But he takes the pull out couch, and they sleep in separate beds.

 

 

 

She sneaks up on him the next morning as he's admiring the view by their motel. She's got a mug of coffee in her hands, a large sweater pulled on with the sleeves falling over her fingers. It's a bit cold out, but Jughead is finding that he doesn't need jackets or caffeinated drinks to keep him warm this morning. 

"I like you Veronica," he says without preamble, the same way most of their conversations start. "I like spending time with you, I like talking with you and joking with you and laughing with you. I like being on this trip with you. And I liked kissing you." Jughead looks at her then, notices the shy way she ducks her head at his words. "I don't want you to think I don't like you if I don't..." The words die on his tongue, and he tries another approach. "Look, I know you had a...a lifestyle in New York. And I know you and Archie..." That doesn't help either, and he gropes for the right words to explain. "Some of the stuff you guys like...you and everyone else at school, sometimes I just...I don't know, I'm not as into it as everyone else." His cheeks flame, and he knows that the tips of his ears, at the very least, are a brilliant scarlet. Maybe he can blame it on the chill. "I like you," he repeats, spreading his hands. "And even if I never want to-" 

"It's cool." He's beyond grateful that she interrupts him, and takes in a deep lungful of air. "I mean, I get that all this stuff's fluid, you know. And that's...that's fine." The tension in his shoulders lets out at Veronica's words, and he exhales in something akin to a sigh of relief. "And by the way Jughead?" He looks at her again, finds himself warmed by her smile. "I liked kissing you too." 

So he kisses her again, with a slight breeze in the air and a nip on his skin. This time, she tastes like coffee. 

 

 

 

Veronica does show him all the sights, all the tourist attractions that make the Big Apple so insanely appealing to everyone both in America and abroad. But she shows him other places too, places that are uniquely Veronica. Her old apartment, her old school. A coffee shop she used to go to daily, a corner of Central Park that was so quiet and still that it was almost impossible that it was in the same city that bustled with so much life. She tours him around a grand old library that she used to come to daily, and he kisses her in the C shelves, right below a copy of _Breakfast at Tiffany's_. That night, they go to a place with gold lighting and cloth napkins and menu items all in a foreign language, and she pays. They walk arm and arm around the city late into the night, trying to count how fewer stars there are here when compared to the Riverdale sky.

At the hotel, they still sleep in separate beds. 

 

 

 

Jughead wonders, on the drive back, whether it'll stay this way when they get back home. Whether they'll continue this pattern they've developed once they enter the town with pep, or if they'll just revert back to how it was before that night at Pop's. Friends-adjacent, with sarcastic banter as the main thread tying them together, as well as tattered relationships with each other's best friends. Jughead isn't sure how he feels about it. He isn't sure if he wants to go back to being friends-adjacent, not when they've spent so much alone time together on the American road, learning and laughing the way they have. But he doesn't know if he wants Riverdale to invade the magic of whatever's altered his relationship with Veronica, doesn't know if he wants to just relegate them to another chapter in his novel. 

"I'm glad we did this Veronica." He hadn't answered her when she said it, when they had just started driving into the night, but he says this now. Because even if their moment outside of the timeline is about to end, even if they never get it back, he wants her to _know_. He needs her to know. 

Veronica doesn't say anything, but he can feel her smile. He can feel the wind blowing through his hair from her open window, and he knows that, in the backseat, his beanie remains untouched. Maybe he won't put it back on. Jughead takes his foot just so slightly off the accelerator, allowing them a bit more time in the car, just the two of them. And he takes his eyes off the road to smile at her. 


End file.
